Sisters, Ice Cream Sundaes, and Paint Colors
by TheBestForksAren'tTheShinyOnes
Summary: A short story written from Seth's perspective. Takes place pre-Breaking Dawn. Life isn't easy being a werewolf, and having a hormonal teenage sister along for the ride doesn't help things... One-shot


This is a story I wrote from my favorite character's point of view, the adorable Seth Clearwater :) This story takes place before Breaking Dawn (I've just now gotten to uploading it- it's been on my computer for months now) and I've recently updated and polished for all of you to read. I hope you enjoy!

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Sometimes I wonder why I even try.

"Seth!" Leah's trill voice comes out more like a snarl.

"Yes?" My newly-acquired bass booms through the entire house, and I can't help but grin. Checking to make sure no one is watching, I pull up the hem of my shirt and look down, my mouth stretching so wide it hurts. That six-pack of Coca Colas in the fridge has nothing on these babies.

Leah chooses that exact moment to prance into the kitchen, and an instant snicker flares through her dainty nose before I can cover my ogling.

"You know, it would save you so much trouble if you would just go around shirtless."

The anger bubbles up unexpectedly, shooting through my veins and burning like fire. "I would say the same to you, but it looks like you're already halfway there." The words come out before I can stop them, and I instantly want to pull them back. Her brown eyes darken to black and harden into pure stone as her arms fold across the part of her chest where fabric should be.

Something none of the Pack was expecting are the different effects phasing has on female werewolves. There isn't a girl at school who isn't eaten up with jealousy, but I feel even sorrier for everyone in the Pack. They have enough stuff to worry about without Leah hanging out of her shirt during every meeting. It's probably the only reason I'm glad to be even remotely related to her.

"Tell Sue I'll be back by eleven," her voice is barely audible as it comes out through gritted teeth. "I'm going out." Leah's too cool now-a-days to say 'Mom'.

I simply nod, knowing that if I ask for details, I'll receive another piercing glare, a toss of her glossy locks, and one snide None-Of-Your-Business. She catches one last glance of herself in the hallway mirror before strutting over the threshold, purse swinging over her shoulder. The front door slams behind her retreating figure so hard that the wood splinters deep around the keyhole and finger-sized dents are molded into the brass knob. I cringe, mentally deducting the cost of a new door from Mom's monthly paycheck. There goes any hope of replacing our rabbit-eared television that I'm pretty sure belonged to my grandmother.

Ick.

I try to push the negative back and return to my previous engagement: a two-carton monster of an ice cream sundae, complete with enough caramel sauce to drown New York City, a snowman of whipped cream, and generous sprinklings of chocolate chips. After kissing the top with a juicy cherry, I admire it for only a moment before digging in with the biggest ladle I can find.

The third spoonful is halfway to my mouth when Mom walks through the door, lugging an armload of brown paper sacks marked with the Lapush General Store logo. I freeze in mid-shove, mouth hanging wide open and neck looming over the crater-sized bowl. She narrows her eyes into slits like Leah's, but hers stay soft and brown and twinkle like little stars.

"Honestly, Seth, you'd think you were raised by wolves."

I grin and shove the entire spoon into my mouth before taking her bags and planting a big, sloppy, whip-cream kiss on her cheek.

"Seth!" she squeals like a little girl. "You look like a rabid dog!"

"I can fix that." And I run my tongue in circles around my face, gathering every foamy morsel sticking around the edges of my chin that's suctioning stray strands of hair to my skin.

My mom laughs. "A regular Scooby-Doo." She tousles my hair, mussing up its already bed-head appearance, and starts to put away the groceries while I finish my Eifel Tower of a sundae.

"Really, Seth," she comments while forcing a can of baked beans into a tiny cabinet that really shouldn't be holding anymore, "have you ever even heard of a brush?"

"Sure," I answer through a mouthful of Fudge Ripple, "I've used one twice today." My next mouthful has a bitter edge. "Stupid werewolf buzz-cut…" I mutter. Hormones have been unkind to me since the phase, and my once neat, curly mane has grown back in at uneven angles; it's now to my ears and jutting out in jagged strands, making me look like I've just rolled out of bed even at eight-o-clock at night.

She arches her eyebrows, unbelieving. "Well brush it again and get rid of all this mess." Her hand sweeps dramatically over the counter cluttered with various masterpiece-making supplies.

"But Mom!" My arms form into a protective shield around a near-empty jar of liquid caramel. I use my pointer finger to capture a particularly appealing smidgen on the bottom and pop it into my mouth. "See? It's still got some in it."

She just rolls her eye and puts it in the trash herself. "Boys..."

Defeated, I start to clean up, sweeping all of the still perfectly-useful remains into a fresh garbage bag. Mom's halfway down the hallway when she pauses.

"Where's Leah?"

Dang.

"Oh," I try to sound nonchalant, "She...went out. She said she'll be back by, umm eleven."

I hold my breath, waiting for the rage and frustration, but all that I hear is a defeated sigh and a few muttered words that even my sharp ears can't catch. Then she shuffles to her bedroom and closes the door with noticeably less force than usual. I decide that now isn't the right time to inform her of the sudden need of a new door.

I finish up in the kitchen, flip the light switch, and head into the living room smothered in a blanket of darkness. I easily find the television, despite the pitch-black. This house is as familiar as Mom's Double Fudge Cheesecake, and as old as the recipe. No one could ever tell by looking at it, though. Mom always keeps it bright and sparkling, organized and spotless. And every summer since I can remember it's gotten a fresh coat of paint, every time a different color. From cherry red to army green and everything in between, the house is like a revolving rainbow. That was all Dad's doing.

"Every year we change," he'd say, looping his arm around my shoulder, "we grow, gain a new shell. Why shouldn't our house too?"

That was his motto; many times I'd come home from school and wonder if the bus driver had made a mistake and disposed of me at the wrong house. A new landscape of plants, shutters of an unfamiliar wood, multi-hued rocking chairs on the front porch...I guess everyone needs a hobby of _some_ kind.

The interior never wavered, though; furniture hasn't been moved an inch since the day I was born, except for the exchange of my crib for a single bed that I still have today. When I asked Dad about it, he explained the rest of his theory.

"We may change on the outside, son, but we're still the same on the inside. Even when it looks dirty sometimes," his dark eyes twinkled towards the disheveled assortment of unwashed laundry scattered across the living room floor, "deep down, we never really change."

I can only hope that Dad knew what he was talking about, because otherwise, Mom and I will be dealing with a monster for the rest of our lives.


End file.
